


it's such an old refrain (and yet i should explain)

by imustgofirst, UbiquitousMixie



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Cerberus has dad moves, Cliche, Comedy of Errors, F/F, Meddling Kids, Sibling Incest, Soft Zelda, Spellcest, Trope Fic, Valentine's Day, oh look Blackwood is a creepshow, sisters literally doing it for themselves, together-as-sisters tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-28 15:19:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17789828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imustgofirst/pseuds/imustgofirst, https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/pseuds/UbiquitousMixie
Summary: Sabrina has (incorrectly) believed for the last sixteen years that her aunties are a couple and plans a special Valentine's Day surprise. Hilarity ensues. (And so does porn).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wives who write incest smut together stay together, so we're clearly in it to win it. This is written for the Together As Sisters community on Tumblr for the prompt "Hilda and Zelda celebrate Valentine's Day." 
> 
> Comments are the greatest thing ever, so let us know what you think!

When Sabrina Spellman was six years old, her first-grade teacher showed her class how to make heart-shaped cards as Valentine’s Day gifts for their parents. Sabrina’s little tongue had poked from the corner of her mouth as she laboriously traced the penciled lines on pink construction paper with her safety scissors, and then glitter-glued a squat H + Z in the center. To this day, it’s pressed in a scrapbook somewhere in the attic.

When she was eight, Sabrina made her aunties breakfast in bed: peanut butter with gloppy jelly and a side of orange juice. She’d wanted to use a heart-shaped cookie cutter, but they didn’t have one, so they were little bats instead. Aunt Hilda’s eyes filled with tears, and Auntie Zee gave Sabrina bites of her sandwich, assuring her niece it was less repulsive than she usually found the concoction. “It’s the best we’ve ever eaten, lamb,” Hilda had interrupted.

When she was twelve, Sabrina raided the family photo albums and made a collage using pictures of the two older witches -- heart-shaped, of course. “It’s the story of you two,” she said. Hilda cried again, and Zelda said, “Oh. Oh, that’s -- _oh, Sabrina_.”

Now Sabrina is sixteen, slouched in a stiff-backed chair in the Baxter High Library while she flips through the pages of the cookbook she snuck out of the kitchen when Auntie Hilda wasn’t around. “I didn’t think this would be so complicated,” she frets aloud. 

“What’s complicated?” Susie asks, peering down at the book in Sabrina’s lap. 

“You look seriously stressed, girl. Can we help?” Roz plucks the book from the witch’s hands, her eyebrow rising above the frame of her glasses. “Sabrina -- tell me you’re not actually going to cook _mottled calf’s brain._ ” 

“Eew!” Susie scrunches her nose. “Is that what witches eat?” 

“No. Well...some do, I guess.” Sabrina lets out a heavy sigh. “I want to make a special dinner for my aunties and I just can’t seem to find the right thing.” 

Roz nods, considering. “What sort of mood are you going for? Is this a ‘thank you’ dinner, or…?”

“It’s for tonight, for Valentine’s Day. I wanted them to have a romantic dinner.” She rests her chin, dejected, on her fists, elbows perched on her knees. 

Roz and Susie exchange a loaded glance, unbeknownst to their sullen friend. 

“I thought your aunts were sisters,” Susie ventures after an elbow to the ribs. 

Sabrina barely glances up. “Yeah, sure. Everybody knows that.” 

Roz and Susie’s shared look metamorphoses from loaded to horrified. After a moment of silence, the blonde catches on and raises her head. “That’s, like, not a thing for witches.”

“ _Incest_?” Roz can’t help but squawk. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees people turning to look, and Susie steps hard on her loafer-clad foot. 

“Well… I mean, they can’t get married, but yeah. Did you never wonder why witches are historically referred to as Weird Sisters?”

Roz, the minister’s daughter, takes a moment to process in silence. Susie’s expression returns to normal, if curious, more quickly. “You know, actually, that makes a ton of sense.”

Sabrina raises her eyebrows. “It does?”

Susie nods pertly. “Answers a lot of questions.”

“I kind of hate to admit it,” Roz rejoins, “but it does. I don’t want to think too much about the specifics --”

“That makes two of us. Definitely no specifics,” Sabrina interrupts.

“Great. So, like I said, how can we help?”

“Really?” the blonde asks, heaving a great sigh of relief. “You wouldn’t mind? I’m so stuck. I feel terrible because they never spend Valentine’s Day apart, but they’re both chaperoning my school dances.” At her friends’ quizzical expressions, Sabrina explains, “The Academy has its Winter Ball tonight. They plan it specifically on Valentine’s Day to keep us from consorting with mortals.” Sabrina rolls her eyes. “Anyway. It’s my fault that they have to be apart, so I want to surprise them with something nice.” 

“‘Brina, you could make them mottled calf’s brain and they’d love it.” 

“Only...maybe _don’t_ make mottled calf’s brain?” Susie suggests helpfully, her pale complexion tinged slightly green. 

Sabrina smiles. “It’s super important that I get this right. Things have been...strained. They’re even sleeping in separate bedrooms,” she adds miserably. 

“Did they have a fight or something?” Roz questions. 

“No more than they usually do. I don’t totally know what’s up, but I _know_ it’ll help if they can have some time alone together.” 

Roz and Susie nod sagely, flipping through various recipes. 

“Couldn’t you just...magic something up?” Susie asks, curious. 

Sabrina can’t help her scandalized expression. “Nope. Out of the question. My Aunt Hilda makes everything from scratch with her bare hands. The least I can do for her is make it myself.” 

“Hey, don’t forget about us! We’re going to the grocery store after school and then cooking at my house,” Roz suggests with a grin. 

Sabrina reaches out a hand to Roz and squeezes her arm. “You guys are the best.” 

Susie nods. “We know. But I’m not doing anything with calf’s brains. How do your aunts feel about pasta?”

\--

“Oh, Sabrina. You look beautiful, darling.”

Sabrina smiles as she smoothes her palms over the flared skirt of her red dress. “Thanks, Auntie. Um. That’s not what you’re wearing, is it?”

Zelda, severely elegant in tailored black, shoots her niece an equally severe look. “It’s quite obviously what I’m wearing, Sabrina, as you can see with your own eyes. What could be the matter with it?”

It’s a question not meant to have an answer, but the teen considers. “Nothing,” she concludes ambivalently. “It’s fine. You look nice.”

Zelda stands in her bedroom frowning into the full-length mirror. From down the hall she hears Sabrina exclaim, “Oh, Auntie Hilda, you look _fabulous_!”

“All thanks to you, lamb!” 

Zelda rolls her eyes and stalks into the hallway, following the girlish giggles to the room only down the hall but also worlds away. She looms in the doorway, observing as Hilda gives her new dress a twirl. The dress is the embodiment of everything that is wrong with this insipid, mortal-manufactured holiday, and also everything that she begrudgingly admits is right: the ridiculous fabric is a deep pink with white hearts, but the pinup shape of the dress lovingly hugs her sister’s curves. Her blonde hair is in loose curls around her face, and even Zelda must admit (if only to herself) that her little sister looks beautiful. 

“Doesn’t Auntie Hilda look incredible, Aunt Zee?” 

Hilda smiles nervously, shoulders hunching as if physically bracing for the impact of whichever scathing insult should be hurled her way. 

Zelda opens her mouth. _Rather saccharine_ , she intends to say. _The print’s quite childish._ “Very lovely,” she says, and could kick herself.

Sabrina’s eyes meet hers in the mirror. Her pleasure at Zelda’s response is evident, but it is eclipsed by the pink flush of her sister’s cheeks at the compliment. 

“That’s --” Hilda reconsiders and says, “Thank you, sister.” She gives Zelda a once-over, and those bright blue eyes raking over her body make Zelda shudder. “You look lovely too.” 

“Apparently I don’t, according to Sabrina.” 

“I never said that!” exclaims the silver-haired witch, mouth agape. “I merely suggested that you wear something less….” 

“Matronly?” Hilda provides, a glint of humor in her eyes. “Severe? Formal?” 

“Satan’s hoof -- it’s a _Winter Ball_. It is a formal affair.” 

The two blonde vexations in Zelda’s life lock eyes. 

Zelda has had quite enough of this. With a roll of her own eyes, she heads for her bedroom. _Matronly_ indeed, as if she’s Eleanor Roosevelt coming up from the coal mines in orthopedic shoes. Truth be told, she has dressed strategically. She has to chaperone the ball in her capacity as interim choir director, and the headmaster will certainly be present; the less of Faustus Blackwood’s attention she attracts, the happier she will be.

But now her pride is at stake. 

“Auntie, do you want us to help?”

“I most certainly do not,” she scoffs. And yet, staring at the rows of dresses and suits all neat on their hangers, she’s at a loss. She sighs. Hilda is dressed as if she anticipates a delightful evening, while Zelda is dressed like she’s headed to a funeral -- which is more or less how she feels, only for funerals she seldom has to leave the comfort of her own home. She flicks briskly through her clothes, uninspired, until a flash of dark red catches her eye.

_Now, that might do_ , she thinks, running a critical eye over the dress she’d almost forgotten she owned. Sabrina would call it retro, but it’s not -- it’s vintage. She vaguely remembers wearing it to some sort of mortal party in, hmm, 1947, was it? Sometime after rationing ended, anyway. It’s modest enough, with short sleeves, a shallow collared v-neck, buttons down the bodice, and a slightly flared skirt, but not -- and her lip curls -- matronly.

And it will look nice enough next to Hilda’s pink, not that it matters, not that they’ll even be at the same wretched dance. 

At least she can count on the academy to have spiked punch.

She eyes her rose gold hair, twisted into an elegant updo. With a frown, Zelda begins to pull out the pins holding it in place.

\-- 

Hilda purses her full lips as she glides pink lip gloss over them, giving them a dramatic smack before she turns to her niece. “What do you think?” 

“Yes!” Sabrina exclaims, leaping from her aunt’s bed to stand beside her at the mirror. “It’s subtle but it accentuates your mouth. I love it. Can I borrow some?” 

Hilda unscrews the top of the tube, pulling out the little brush to apply the goopy, pink-tinted gloss to Sabrina’s lips. “You look lovely, my darling.” 

Sabrina examines herself in the mirror. “We definitely need photos before we leave.” 

“I’ve already got the camera out downstairs,” Hilda replies with a wink. 

They use their fingers to fluff hair and primp side-by-side, reminding Hilda of late nights shared with her niece, painting nails and curling hair and practicing makeup. She seldom has moments like this with Sabrina now that she’s been baptized and, as emotion swells in her chest, she curls an arm around Sabrina’s shoulder, tugs her close, and kisses the top of her head. 

“Auntie, you’ll mess up my hair,” Sabrina whines, though there is no annoyance in her tone. 

“Getting sentimental, are we?” 

Sabrina and Hilda turn toward Zelda’s disembodied voice in the doorway. 

The lip gloss falls from Hilda’s suddenly clumsy fingers. 

“Now _that_ is definitely more like it,” Sabrina declares, beaming. “Auntie Hilda, how hot does Auntie Zee look?”

Zelda is busy scoffing and rolling her eyes at Sabrina’s choice of adjectives, so she doesn’t see the way her sister’s cheeks flood with color as she stammers out, “Just like V-Veronica Lake.” 

“Picture time!” Sabrina exclaims, apparently bent on using her exclamation quota for the remainder of the year. 

As they file down the stairs, Zelda shoots Hilda a dark look. “Honestly, sister -- Veronica Lake?”

“It’s, you know, the -- the hair?” Hilda explains, trailing them into the front room. 

She sincerely hopes that no one notices the way she watches the hypnotic sway of Zelda’s hips. She ignores the resulting heat in her cheeks. 

Sabrina snatches up Hilda’s camera, squirming excitedly as she waves her aunts over toward the fireplace. “All right, aunties. Smile!”

Hilda positions herself beside her sister, standing a breath’s distance apart but careful not to touch for fear of burning up. Her grin comes easily, effortless whenever in her family’s presence. She does not have to call upon her mind-reading abilities to know that her sister is stone-faced. 

Sabrina lowers the camera, beautiful face wracked with horror. “Auntie Zee, you do actually _like_ Aunt Hilda, don’t you?” 

Zelda rolls her eyes, and Hilda chuckles. 

“Oh, let’s get this over with,” Zelda says with a scowl, wrapping her arm around Hilda’s shoulder to pull her closer. Her sinfully lovely, cruel maroon lips curl into a smile that, despite her annoyance, is genuine. Hilda smiles up at her sister and the flash goes off. 

She can’t wait to see that picture. 

Zelda’s patient impatience lasts for a few shots with Sabrina, endures while she takes a couple of Hilda with their niece, and then she announces, “That’s quite enough of that. It’s time we were off.”

Sabrina’s stated intention is to begin the evening at the Academy, and then to head over to Baxter High before the festivities end, and to round things out at a sleepover with Susie and Roz at which they will discuss how Valentine’s Day specifically, and the concept of romance more generally, are oppressive tools of the patriarchy. (“Sounds lovely, possum,” Hilda had chirped at the announcement, and the look Sabrina had lanced her way was so scathingly Zelda that the younger aunt had found herself blinking back proud tears.)

The three Spellman women collect purses and coats, and Zelda sternly says, “You will telephone at the witching hour and no later, young lady.” 

“Of course, Auntie Zee. But you’ll both be back way before then, right? I mean, you don’t have to stay until the end of the dances or anything. So what time would you say?”

Zelda’s forehead has acquired that pronounced crease of irritated confusion. “I’ve no earthly idea, Sabrina. It rather depends on whether or not Father Blackwood needs me for anything.”

Sabrina frowns an identical frown right back. “Why would Father Blackwood need _you_?”

“The _faculty_ , niece.”

“Right,” Hilda chimes in, “the faculty, not your auntie specifically. Because that would be -- I mean, as he’s not having a baby, that would be quite odd, wouldn’t it, Zelds?” She hears her own forced, awkward laughter, sees the way Zelda glares at her, and would not put it past her older sister to linger tete a tete with the high priest just to spite her.

“So… Maybe eleven, would you say? Aunt Hilda, you’ll be home by eleven, won’t you?”

“Oh, well, I’m not sure, actually.” Hilda feels her cheeks color, and couldn’t say why she feels as if she’s been caught being naughty. “Cee invited me to drop by for a hot chocolate after my chaperoning duties are done.”

Sabrina’s expression could only be described as abject horror. “On Valentine’s Day? Aunt Hilda, you _can’t_! You’ll give him the wrong idea.”

Zelda mutters something under her breath as she belts her black and gold wool coat. It sounds a lot like “Or the _right_ idea.”

Hilda blushes harder. 

Sabrina’s face as they trail out the front door is reminiscent of the year the young half-witch learned that Santa Claus was not, in fact, an elementary anagram devised by the Dark Lord but instead a manmade merrymaker devised to reward well-behaved mortal children. 

\-- 

It still surprises the teenage witch that there are rooms upon rooms in the Academy of Unseen Arts that she’s never seen before. The school’s very own ballroom is decked out in icy colors, blue and silver and white blending to evoke a witchy, winter wonderland. 

Sabrina and her aunt are the only witches wearing red. The Spellmans have always been...different. 

She spots her trio of friends lurking across the room, each resplendent in variations of black lace. 

“Behave,” Zelda warns as Sabrina heads in their direction. 

“Me? Misbehave?” Sabrina asks with a serene smile. “Never!” 

Zelda raises an imperious eyebrow and makes a beeline for the punch. 

“Red, Sabrina?” Prudence asks with a cruel sneer, though her dark eyes are appreciative as they sweep over the blonde’s body. 

“Catering to the mortals, are we?” Dorcas chimes in, and Agatha helpfully adds, “You can take the mortal out of the witch…” 

Sabrina rolls her eyes. “I like red, okay? I didn’t know there was a dress code.” 

“Your aunt didn’t get the memo either by the looks of it,” Prudence adds, and Sabrina does not miss the way her eyes trail from Aunt Zelda’s copper hair to her black heels. 

Across the room, Father Blackwood spots her aunt sipping a generous serving of punch, and there is something about his gaze that makes Sabrina’s stomach churn unpleasantly. 

Unbeknownst to her, Zelda is having a similar physiological response, which she can’t chalk up entirely to the sweetness of the punch. Perhaps she should have brought a flask.

Then again, being tipsy in Faustus Blackwood’s presence is probably not the soundest of ideas. Their eyes meet, and she flushes with embarrassment and anger as she remembers how she let him put his hands on her, his cock inside her. Only as a representative of the Dark Lord, but still. Satan, she thinks, could surely find a better representative on earth, or at least one who knows what a clitoris is or where to find it. Poor Lady Blackwood -- what a wretched existence hers must have been.

The fact that Zelda kidnapped the man’s daughter and spirited her away to the forest has created a not-unwelcome invisible barrier between the two of them; as his gaze lingers on the barest hint of decolletage, she reminds herself that Faustus remains unaware of said barrier’s existence, and her guard goes up even further. She should never have worn this ridiculous dress. 

He skulks over to her. “You’re looking resplendent in red this evening, Sister Zelda.” When she doesn’t blush and simper, he frowns slightly. “Could we have a word in my office? There’s a matter I’d like to discuss.”

She answers with a charming smile. “Faustus, I really don’t think it’s smart for two of the chaperones to leave all these young warlocks and witches to their own devices, do you? Surely you haven’t forgotten what it’s like to be young.”

His eyebrows draw down in a severe vee. “Always thinking of what’s best for the coven, aren’t you? Well, the corridor will do.”

He sweeps away, and she has no choice but to follow him or make a scene. At least the corridor is semi-public.

The older Spellman is unaware that she is being watched by an appalled silver-haired witch. Sabrina barely mutters an excuse to the Weird Sisters before she is nearly skipping across the ballroom after the High Priest and her aunt. As she reaches the doorway, she peers slightly into the hall, spotting them only a few feet away. If she only focuses, she can just make out--

“Eavesdropping now? You _are_ a bad girl, aren’t you?” Prudence purses her lips into a smirk. She crosses her arms and raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. 

Sabrina rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re not curious about what your father is up to?”

“Even if I were, I’m smart enough to know better than to cross him. Some secrets are better left undiscovered.” 

As warnings go, Prudence makes a fair point. It’s one thing to piss off her Auntie Zee, but Faustus Blackwood has made it clear that he is not above breaking the rules when it comes to his best interests. Still...Aunt Hilda’s hurt, betrayed face comes to mind, and her resolve hardens. “I need to know.” 

Sabrina tells herself she doesn’t have any particular suspicions, but suspects she might be lying. The hall is dark, but not so dark that she can’t see Father Blackwood standing so close to Aunt Zee that not even a lower demon could squeeze between them. She watches with fascinated horror as one claw-like hand winds itself in strawberry blonde hair, pulling her aunt’s head back with a force that has to hurt. As Zelda raises a hand, Sabrina experiences an instant of anticipatory glee. She’d quite like to see the high priest get slapped. But the pale hand with its dark purple nails rests lightly against the vestments covering Father Blackwood’s chest.

Sabrina’s involuntary gasp is loud enough that Aunt Zee whirls to face her. The older witch’s expression is the picture of dismay. Belatedly, she takes a step back. 

“How _could_ you?” Sabrina demands, staring at the older witch. 

“Child --” Father Blackwood begins, but Aunt Zelda holds up a hand to stop him. 

“Let me handle this.” 

“There’s nothing to handle, Aunt Zelda. I saw more than enough.” 

“Sabrina, what you saw--” 

It’s Sabrina’s turn to hold up a hand. “Maybe you should save the explanation for Aunt Hilda instead.” With a shake of her head, Sabrina storms back into the ballroom. 

Prudence is not far behind, and she curls her hand around Sabrina’s wrist before she can disappear into the crowd of dancing witches and warlocks. “Are you satisfied now?” 

Sabrina glares at the other witch, heart pounding. She cannot help the flood of panic, cannot fight against the creeping anxiety that grips at her chest. If Aunt Zee is sleeping with the High Priest, surely Aunt Hilda is blissfully unaware? Is Sabrina now an unwilling accomplice to her aunt’s betrayal? 

Prudence’s look is appraising. “You need punch.”

Silver hair bounces as Sabrina shakes her head. “I need to go. I need to talk to Aunt Hilda.”

Prudence rolls her eyes, but her tone is not without sympathy. “What good will that do, half-breed? Besides, you just got here. What you need is punch and dancing.”

Sabrina remains unconvinced, but if she teleports to Baxter High and reports what she’s seen, she might make things worse. Maybe Aunt Zelda has some sort of innocent explanation, although it’s hard to imagine what that could be.

“Punch and dancing,” Prudence repeats; her fingers encircle Sabrina’s wrist, and the younger witch lets herself be pulled into the throng of gyrating bodies, saying only, “Don’t call me half-breed.”

—

Faustus is many things, but he’s not obtuse. Zelda reckons he’s gotten the point, and she’s not in danger of any further romantic overtures. 

So of course Sabrina had to see the last one.

She looks at her reflection in the mirror of the faculty restroom, smacks her lips against the sticky coat of crimson she has just reapplied. Smoothes her hair where the high priest’s fingers disarranged it. She needs neither lipstick nor hair-smoothing, but she does need a moment somewhere quiet and mostly private to think. 

She hasn’t done anything wrong, so she isn’t sure why her stomach churns with acid.

As if in response, her mind conjures an image of Sabrina whispering urgently to Hilda, blonde heads bent together, before Hilda turns to Zelda with wounded eyes and a mouth slack with shock.

Zelda shakes her head, banishing the figments. Sabrina may be unaccustomed to seeing her take a lover, but Hilda certainly isn’t, even if they have been few and far between since the sisters assumed guardianship of their niece. Zelda has no reason to feel trepidation at the thought of Hilda finding out, or for her cheeks to heat as she avoids her own reflected gaze. 

It’s not as if the affair truly matters -- it was misguided, reckless penance -- but Hilda would only see the chasm between them widened by secrets. Her sister dearest was already one foot out the proverbial door, far too close to a preposterous shopkeeper in a cape. 

Zelda could lose her in the span of a breath. 

She will not allow that to happen. 

That she has ever only wanted Hilda, her beloved sister, is incidental. 

\--

Hilda has heard a lot of music in her day; she remembers the 50s and 60s fondly, but had a right good time in the 70s and 80s. It’s gone downhill since.

Music these days, however, makes her cringe, an unpleasant backdrop to the sweating, dancing teens before her. She imagines that Zelda is witnessing a similar spectacle of hormonal youth, and a sudden pang of loneliness overcomes her. 

She’s not used to spending Valentine’s Day without her sister -- the very same sister who harrowed her when she was Sabrina’s age. But, in the end, Hilda can’t forget that Zelda has given her life as well as death, can’t help but love her anyway despite her violent temper.

Hilda never could love halfway. 

And then, across the Baxter High gymnasium, Hilda is pulled from her thoughts by the very real presence of Doctor Cerberus. 

With a bracing breath, Hilda heads his way, waving to Susie as she passes. As she nears, she gets a better look at his table, decorated in a banner advertising free hot chocolate with heart-shaped marshmallows. He is, praise Satan, not wearing his Dracula costume. 

“Doctor Cee, what a surprise!” 

He jumps to his feet, smoothing down the front of his blazer. “Hilda! Hi! Looks like you caught me!”

“Why didn’t you tell me you would be here?” Hilda asks. She can detect his blush even in the dim lighting. 

“I -- well, it just so happens that I wanted to make a grand Valentine’s Day gesture to you, Hilda Spellman.” 

Hilda feels her expression freeze, knows it is the wide-eyed too-bright smile that makes her look more than a little psycho. She imagines this is more socially acceptable than the embarrassed horror she is feeling.

Because, oh no.

“Grand… gesture?” she parrots. Hearts on her dress, hearts in the cup of hot cocoa he has just handed her, none of them available for Cerberus’s consumption. 

“It’s very kind of you to want me to have a friend to chat with,” she continues in a conversational tone, hoping against hope that he will notice the reframe and they can ignore this whole incident. _You give a bloke one little post-disaster kiss,_ she thinks. 

If she weren’t excommunicated, she could be sipping punch and pretending to disapprove of Zelda’s scathing commentary on everyone and everything at the ball, with the added bonus of completely appropriate sisterly admiration for Zelda’s bare arms and the way red makes her skin seem to glow. 

Instead she is standing here with a middle-aged mortal in a brown sport coat, and he has started bobbing his head in a way that cannot be ignored.

_Bollocks._

She turns to excuse herself to the ladies’, but it’s too late. “Let’s dance!” Cee enthuses, as a woman sings about disliking the treble clef, which is both odd and confusing because the song does actually contain more treble than bass. At least it’s fast enough, and Hilda can bob with the best of them. There’s no need to hurt his feelings, and Sabrina doesn’t seem to be here yet to die of humiliation at the spectacle.

He takes her hand, pulling her toward the dance floor. 

Satan help her. 

“You look beautiful, Hilda Spellman,” he says with a shy smile, swaying in time to the beat of the song. “Pink has never looked better.”

Hilda wonders if she could conjure another tornado, or at the very least a minor earthquake. “You’re looking lovely yourself,” she responds neutrally. Over the loudspeakers, the singer goes on about bringing booty back, and she rolls her eyes. “I hadn’t realized that ‘booty’ had ever left.” 

Cee laughs and, to Hilda’s continued mortification, his eyes drop to the curve of her hips, no doubt thinking about her rather round (but rather nice) bottom. “Long live the booty, right?”

Perhaps a hex would be best -- quick and dirty and highly effective. Zelda could even give her some pointers. 

Hilda is once again grateful that Zelda is far, far away from Baxter High. It would be a shame if the only decent coffeeshop in town were to lose its owner.

There is a gentle tap at her shoulder, and Hilda turns to find Susie Putnam standing beside her, dapper in dress slacks and a button-down shirt. “Miss Spellman? There’s a situation in the girls’ bathroom.” 

“Duty calls, I’m afraid,” Hilda says to Cee, following Susie around the periphery of the dance floor. She only catches a flash of his disappointed expression before she loses sight of him through the crowd, though her guilt fades as she feels his gaze linger on her backside as she walks away. “Is everything all right, love? What’s the situation?” 

Susie stops once they reach the hallway, leaning back against the lockers. “Oh -- there’s no situation. I thought maybe you needed a save.” 

“Was it that obvious?” 

“Maybe not to Doctor Cerberus, but I’m pretty observant.” 

“He means well, but…” 

“But he’s barking up the wrong tree?” 

“Yes, as it were.” Hilda raises an eyebrow. “When did you become so wise?” 

Susie shrugs. “Thanks, but I don’t feel very wise at the moment.”

Hilda’s expression turns concerned. “What’s happened, pet? Do you want to talk about it?”

Another shrug. “Nothing’s happened. That’s kind of the problem.”

Hilda waits, a technique that usually works with her younger relatives.

“Roz is dancing with Harvey,” Susie bursts out.

As the most intuitive Spellman, Hilda doesn’t need help parsing this situation. “Well, they’re friends, aren’t they?”

Susie eyes her. “Yeah. But don’t you think, um, Sabrina might be upset?”

Sabrina’s not here, of course, but Susie is, and she’s doing a good job looking upset enough for the both of them. “You could cut in,” Hilda points out gently.

Susie continues to stare mutely, eyes wide. Hilda shrugs. “It’s something to think about,” she suggests. “Now, much as I don’t want to, I need to get back in there. Chin up, hey? And thanks for the save.”

Susie’s pixie smile reappears, albeit dimly. “No problem. Zelda seems like the jealous type.”

Hilda nods agreement, has already re-entered the gym when her higher brain kicks in and she thinks, _Wait, what?!_

It seems unlikely in the extreme that Sabrina’s friend was suggesting the elder Spellman has designs on Cerberus. How very odd they must all think the sisters Spellman are, if Hilda can’t even bop at a sodding high school dance without Zelda’s approval. It _is_ odd, Hilda acknowledges, and feels a flash of indignation. She should assert her independence more.

She catches a glimpse of a brown sport coat and automatically turns on her heel. She reasons that she is independently deciding not to get within dancing distance, and besides, there’s probably something she needs to chaperone behind the bleachers.

—


	2. chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the amazing comments (we DO plan on responding to them all)! We've been having a whole lot of fun writing for the spellcest fandom, so we hope you enjoy reading! let us know what you think!

Prudence, as it turns out, sometimes knows what she’s talking about. Sabrina begrudgingly admits that her suggestion of punch and dancing was the necessary antidote to her poisonous worry, and as she takes another sip of her spiked drink, she catches her breath. The Weird Sisters show no signs of leaving the dance floor any time soon and Sabrina is equal parts impressed and jealous of their stamina. 

Not that Sabrina has any more time to devote to dancing. With a quick glance at her cellphone, she realizes that it’s time to leave for Baxter High, and anxiety floods anew. 

How can she look at her Aunt Hilda, knowing what Aunt Zee has been getting up to behind her back? 

It’s not fair, really, that Sabrina is in this position. Though she must admit that yes, she brought this discovery upon herself, there should have been no secret to discover in the first place, and the onus of this is entirely on Aunt Zelda.

Sabrina has questions. 

She doesn’t realize that she is scowling until her aunt catches her eye and raises one imperious eyebrow. Sabrina holds her gaze before she turns away, waves at her friends, and heads for the hall. 

She makes it as far as the statue of the Dark Lord in the main hall before Aunt Zelda catches up to her. “Well,” the older witch huffs, “I see that you’ve dispensed with all decorum this evening.” 

Sabrina freezes, assumes she is referring to the vodka liberally lacing the libations Sabrina and company have been chugging.

“Surely you can at least manage to say goodnight.”

If Aunt Zelda were anyone else in the world, Sabrina would say, _Really, Emily Post_? Because this is so trivial. Sabrina basically caught Zelda in flagrante cheating on Aunt Hilda, and she’s being scolded about _manners_?

But Aunt Zelda isn’t anyone else, so Sabrina replies “Good night, Zelda” through clenched teeth. Relishes the way her aunt flinches at the use of her name.

Is surprised when a hand closes around her wrist, dragging her back. “Sabrina Spellman, what in the nine circles has gotten into you?”

“Gotten into me?” the teen repeats incredulously, not bothering to keep her voice down. “I could ask what, or who, has gotten into _you_ , but it’s painfully obvious.”

Sabrina may be a little drunk. Because she has only seen that look on her aunt’s face once before, and that involved a failed resurrection and a half-dead witch, and right now she doesn’t care.

Zelda opens her mouth to speak but promptly closes it, pressing her lips into a thin line. 

Sabrina swallows. This does not bode well, but she presses on. “I thought our family meant more to you than that. I thought Aunt Hilda meant more.” And, with that, Sabrina teleports to Baxter High. 

Zelda stares at the empty space left in Sabrina’s wake, her niece’s parting words ringing in her ears. 

Of all people to be accused of not caring about her family, Zelda considers herself a poor choice. She is willing to accept that Sabrina’s inebriated logic leaves something to be desired, but the insinuation stings all the same. 

Stings? No, the longer she stands there, she realizes this isn’t a cut but a deep wound, the kind that only starts to hurt once the blade is out. 

She wouldn’t put it past Sabrina to run straight to Hilda (Hilda whom she has somehow especially wronged, according to their niece) and recount her supposed transgressions; but what bothers her is the nagging suspicion that Hilda might agree. She envisions two blonde heads bent together, herself the outsider, just as she had been earlier in the evening.

Without even going back for her coat or purse, Zelda teleports herself to Baxter High. It takes her a moment to get her bearings, but then she realizes she is sprawled in a rather undignified heap on the floor of the girls’ bathroom. At least it’s not the lads’.

“ _Zelda_? I mean — I mean Ms Spellman, oh my gosh, I definitely meant Ms Spellman!”

“Rosalind,” the witch responds succinctly, “you’re standing on my hem.”

Sabrina’s friend trips over herself and Zelda in the process of trying to help her up, doing so much damage to them both that Zelda resorts to a little glamour. Once they are both upright, Rosalind thinks she has escaped, and is reaching for the door when Zelda speaks again.

“Now, Rosalind, tell me, child: has some mortal boy caused this flood of insipid tears?”

The young woman’s cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I -- no. Not exactly. Only, maybe?” 

Zelda sighs, motioning toward the row of counters. “Come here. I’ll fix your mascara.” 

Rosalind glances at her reflection and then back to Zelda’s perfectly applied makeup before nodding. “Thanks, Ms. Spellman. It’s -- ugh -- being sixteen is _a lot_ , you know?” 

Zelda wets a paper towel, wrings out the excess moisture, and nods. She remembers all too well the hormonal, impulsive nightmare she’d been at that age, freshly baptized and ready to smoke and fuck her way through the witches and warlocks of the Academy. It had been a time of unquenchable lust, of sleepless nights lying a foot away from the one she loved most. 

It had been wonderful and terrible. 

“It certainly is,” she agrees, gingerly removing the young woman’s thick glasses so she can dab the towel beneath Rosalind’s eye. 

“Unrequited love is the worst. I mean, next to the whole going blind thing.” 

“On the topic of unrequited love, I can relate,” Zelda says, dabbing at her other cheek. “It will become tolerable in time. Close your eyes.” The young woman does as she is told, and Zelda blows gently against her face. “There.” 

Rosalind puts on her glasses and peers into the mirror, inspecting her makeup. Her eyes widen as she realizes that her eyeliner and mascara are both refreshed, as if both have just been applied. “Did you just…?” 

Zelda winks. “Come. We can’t hide all night in the ladies’ room, can we?” 

The dance is easy to locate. Unfortunately, so is her niece.

“The two of you are as bad as each other! At least Father Blackwood is _important_ ,” Sabrina rants at an ashen-faced Hilda; the two of them are standing just outside the gym, and Sabrina’s raised voice is attracting attention. “I came here thinking Aunt Zelda didn’t deserve you, but now I see that you two deserve each other perfectly. What you _don’t_ deserve is the surprise I planned for you!”

“That’s no way to talk to your aunt,” scolds Cerberus, who is insinuating himself next to Hilda. 

Zelda steps forward. “This doesn’t concern you.”

The mortal man frowns, which seems to be his strongest expression. “It does! Your niece saw Hilda and me in a passionate —“

“No,” Hilda interrupts, looking at him over her shoulder. “It really doesn’t concern you. I’m sorry if you got the wrong idea.”

Sabrina leans over, hands on her knees. Roz and Susie seem to materialize out of the darkness. Roz pats the blonde’s back as Sabrina mutters, “I feel a little sick.”

“If I could only explain -- “ Cee interjects, daring to point his finger toward the Spellman women. 

“You,” Zelda says, glaring at the shopkeeper, “leave. This is a family matter.” 

He squares his shoulders, but before he exhibits the poor sense to argue with Zelda, Hilda steps in. “Off you pop, then.” Shoulders drooping, he re-enters the gymnasium.

“And you two,” Zelda adds, turning to Roz and Susie, “I suggest you take her to the ladies’. She has been drinking.” 

“Here we go, ‘Brina,” Roz coos softly, guiding Sabrina down the hall. Susie follows close behind. 

“How’d she get drunk?” Hilda asks, worried blue eyes watching until the trio have disappeared into the loo.

“In the conventional way, like every other witch or warlock at that ball. -- I don’t know about you, sister, but I have had quite the evening.” 

Hilda laughs, shaking her head. “You too, eh?”

“Satan spare us from the wrath of an overwrought teenage witch. She teleported herself over here in a huff of unrighteous indignation, claiming that I don’t care about our family, so I did the only possible thing and --”

“Teleported yourself over here in a huff of unrighteous indignation?” she teases gently, then frowns. “I can’t imagine what would even possess our Sabrina to accuse you, of all people in the realms, of not caring about --”

“She saw me with Father -- with Faustus, and misunderstood what she witnessed,” Zelda confesses in a rare burst of honesty, drawn into the comfort of disburdening herself to her sister.

Hilda nods, not exactly looking thrilled, but far from shocked. Blackwood and Zelda have danced around one another for centuries, mostly as adversaries, sometimes as something else. “When you say she saw you, you don’t mean the two of you were, um --”

“He attempted to kiss me and I rebuffed him,” Zelda replies dryly. “Satan’s claw, sister, at a school dance?”

“Don’t act as if you haven’t.”

“As a _student_! I don’t know what Sabrina thinks she saw, but I’m confident I needn’t worry about any further romantic overtures from the high priest. And you? In what international scandal have you embroiled our family during the past two hours?”

She sees exactly when her teasing registers on Hilda’s face. It’s something she does so rarely that it takes a few seconds. “A similar tale of woe, actually. Much as it pains me to admit it, you were right about Cee’s intentions. I honestly thought we could be friends.”

She waits for the _I told you so_ or the aspersion on her intelligence, but instead gets a small smile. “Oh, Hildegard. You always have vastly underestimated the effect you have on people.”

Despite the incredibly crappy tenor of her evening so far, Hilda can’t help smiling in return.

Zelda links her arm through the smaller witch’s and sighs. “I’m tired, sister,” she declares, leaning into her slightly. “Drive me home.”

\--

Roz knocks against the stall, pressing her ear to the crack above the lock. “You okay in there, Sabrina?” 

The witch groans and, to Roz’s horror, retches into the toilet. 

Cringing, Roz walks toward the door where Susie leans against the wall, keeping a lookout for other chaperones. “Susie, I need to tell you something.” 

“What is it?” 

Roz leans in to Susie’s ear and whispers, “I had a cunning vision. About Sabrina’s aunts. They’re not actually a couple. They never have been -- but they will be if the whole dinner thing goes as planned!”

“Wait, what? They’re not…?” Susie’s eyes widen. “I’m so confused.” 

“I think it’s what they’ve wanted all along. Something Zelda said about unrequited love --” Her eyes widen. “I think Sabrina’s set this whole thing into motion!”

A groan sounds from the stall. 

“Everything is the worst, you guys! My Auntie Hilda’s cheating on my Auntie Zee with Bela Lugosi’s annoying kid brother and my Auntie Zee is hooking up with a skeezy priest and my mom and dad are dead and my aunties are the only parents I’ve ever known and what if they’re breaking up and just don’t want to tell me?” The witch hiccups and lets out a strangled sob. “I can’t go h-home! I can’t be there when it happens!”

“Brina,” Roz soothes, “everything feels worse than it is right now, okay? Let’s get you some water and fresh air. Your aunties are just fine, trust me.”

“They’re not,” the blonde laments as she washes her face and wipes her eyes. “You guys, you didn’t see them -- Bather Flackwood -- and the other one, what’s he a doctor of, anyway? Separate bedrooms. I bet they’re just waiting until spring break to tell me!” she wails. “How will I choose who to live with? Auntie Hilda is a much better cook, but Auntie Zee teaches me hexes. I made Agatha get the _worst_ pimple.”

Susie pats Sabrina’s shoulder. “It’s all going to seem better after we have some vegetarian lasagne and tiramisu, which is what we’re going to do now because it’s all out in my dad’s truck. We’re going to take it over to your house and serve it, because everything’s already set up. Okay?”

“They don’t even _deserve_ food,” Sabrina replies. “We should just eat it all ourselves, or -- or take it to the soup kitchen. I mean, it’s not food for _cheaters_. And that’s assuming we could even get them into the same room.” She is, at least, steady enough to walk on her own, as long as they do so relatively slowly. Roz peers around protectively, alert for the watchful eye of newly-appointed Principal Wardwell. 

Sabrina perks up when the cold air hits her, or at least starts talking again, like a doll whose string has been pulled. “Ooh, I bet they’re going to have the most terrible fight ever.” She sounds darkly pleased. “I bet Auntie Zee will break stuff. And Ambrose told me once Aunt Hilda retaliated with a silencing potion, and Zelda couldn’t talk for a week. Now _that_ would be a nice change. Or --”

“Or maybe they’ll hug it out,” Roz interrupts.

Sabrina snorts. “Okay, guys, I can do magic, but, like, not _that_ kind of magic. If you’d spent more time around my aunts -- which I have strategically prevented you from doing for the past ten years -- you’d understand that the likelihood of -- oh.” Because Sabrina’s eyes have finally focused on what her friends already saw, which is her aunts walking arm in arm to the hearse.

“Well?” Susie asks. Zelda gallantly opens the driver’s side door for Hilda, and Hilda laughs.

Sabrina blinks. Stares. “I’m so confused.” 

Roz rubs her back soothingly, guiding her toward the truck. “We know, sweetie. We know.” 

\-- 

The Sisters Spellman take the scenic route home. 

Cigarette smoke and Billie Holiday stream through the cracked window as the hearse leisurely winds its way through dark streets and forest roads. Hilda smiles, feeling at peace in this stolen moment with her sister. There is the issue of their drunken niece’s poor behavior to deal with, but this moment is the best part of her day.

“What a Valentine’s Day, huh?” Hilda asks, shooting a wry smile at the older witch. 

“It certainly ranks as one of the more memorable,” Zelda replies. “Although the year she filled the entire embalming room with pink and red balloons also comes to mind.” 

Hilda laughs; it had taken a carefully timed hex to erase the memory of old Mrs. Bates after discovering a popped balloon in her husband’s casket. “Oh -- what about the year that she charmed her baby doll to play Cupid?” 

Zelda rolls her eyes. “It threw ‘colored pencil’ arrows at my knees all day -- how could I forget?” She pauses, and then: “Oh, sweet Lucifer -- Sabrina mentioned a surprise, didn’t she?” 

“Oh, dear. Satan only knows what she’s got planned this year.” 

“I do so hope that it involves more shouting -- there hasn’t been nearly enough ill-tempered berating today.” 

“What I don’t understand is why she’s so angry.”

This should not floor Zelda as it does. But she has spent so much of her own life being angry that it hadn’t occurred to her that it’s not their niece’s natural state of being. She considers this for a moment, shakes her head. Chuckles as she murmurs, “You know, Hilda, it’s almost as if she thought I was -- that you and I were -- that we --” on a rising note of incredulity.

Despite Zelda’s sudden and unprecedented inability to finish a sentence, as their eyes meet for a second in the light of the dashboard, she knows Hilda understands perfectly.

“But how could --? Did she--? But then wouldn’t--? And then perhaps. Oh, dear,” the blonde splutters. Her cheeks are stained dusky in the low light.

Zelda has goosebumps. The placid line of her sister’s profile tells her nothing. Is Hilda horrified? Scandalized? Titillated? If she thought it would elicit a response, Zelda would shake her.

“Oh, dear,” Hilda repeats, tutting as they pull down the long driveway. “It looks like the girls are all here.”

Zelda’s voice sounds hoarse when she says, “Fabulous.” Her mouth has gone dry.

Hilda cuts the ignition and leans back against the seat, neither sister making a move to get out of the car as Billie fades to silence. “Sabrina’s first drunken Valentine’s Day. One for the memory books, eh?” 

Zelda suddenly remembers the heart-shaped collage Sabrina had made for them years ago. How had they been so oblivious to Sabrina’s misunderstanding of the nature of their relationship?

“I suggest we wait until tomorrow to talk with her about her behavior,” Hilda ventures. “You know, when she’s a bit less pissed.”

“And what do you suggest we do about this surprise?” 

Hilda shrugs. “She means well, Zelds. We’re the only parents she’s got, and she’s scared she’ll lose us if we split up.” 

“You would have us pretend to be lovers rather than tell our niece the truth?” Zelda’s eyes watch the hypnotic way Hilda’s throat constricts as she swallows. Their eyes meet and for a moment, Zelda can picture it, can feel the ease of loving Hilda. Heat creeps to her cheeks, and she has to look away. “You do recall how fond she is of our keeping secrets from her.” 

“I’m not saying that we _never_ tell her the truth -- I’m simply suggesting that we wait until the morning when she’s had a bit of sleep.” 

“Well...I suppose we could go inside and see what we’re dealing with before making a determination.” It’s not exactly a ringing agreement, but predictably, Hilda takes it. 

“I’m hungry,” the younger witch natters as they head for the house. “Are you hungry? I could scramble a few eggs, and we still have some of that cinnamon raisin bread I know you secretly like. Do you hear music?”

“Not at all, you’ve gone quite mad.”

“... So that’s a yes to the music, then? Sabrina? Girls?”

A bistro table has been magicked into the sunroom among their plants, the only illumination provided by the flickering candle resting atop it. The Andrews Sisters serenade them from the record player, and Zelda remembers dancing around the living room rug in the days before Ambrose… _came to visit,_ as Edward referred to it.

“All right,” her younger sister stage whispers, “a meal. I think it’s just a meal, Zelds, and we have to eat.”

Zelda visibly hesitates. Her stomach rumbles, and Hilda has the temerity to giggle. “Come on,” Hilda encourages. “She’ll only think we’ve had a spat in the car if you go upstairs. Sit down and enjoy this --” and with her voice rising to a louder-than-normal conversational tone as Roz appears with two very generous servings -- “delicious lasagne.”

An agitated Susie pokes her head in from the kitchen. “That’s the second course, dummy. Come back and get the caprese.”

Hilda’s gentle hand on her arm stops Roz’s progress. “We’ll start with this -- It tastes the same no matter the order, right?” she says kindly.

This is fine with Zelda, who is content to bolt her food as quickly as possible, not just in order to escape but because she is starving. After a few seconds she realizes Roz is still standing at her elbow.

“Yes, Rosalind?”

“I’m not sure I should tell you this -- I haven’t totally figured out how the whole cunning thing works yet. But this doesn’t feel right.” She takes a deep breath, looks skyward, and blurts, “I had a vision when you apperated or whatever into the girls’ bathroom --”

(Zelda gasps at the offensive ‘apperated’ and Hilda pats her arm as if silently saying, _Your blood pressure._ )

“Susie and I know you’re not a couple, and Sabrina is asleep upstairs, so you don’t have to pretend for us. Just have a nice dinner.”

Zelda catches her sister’s eye, her annoyance dissipating as she notes the amusement twinkling in her wide blue eyes. “I’m glad you are amused, sister, that our dearest niece has told her mortal friends that she believes we’re lovers.” 

“Oh, there’s no harm done, is there?” Hilda says with a smirk. 

“Susie and I are cool with it. You know, if you _were_ a couple, which you’re not. But um, not that you need our blessing.” Roz’s eyes widen in horror at herself. “I’m going to go back into the kitchen now. Enjoy your dinner.” She spins on her heel and hastens her step out of the room. 

Hilda laughs. “We’ve got to make sure that Sabrina hangs on to those chums of hers.”

“Yes,” Zelda agrees, reaching for the bottle of cabernet that is breathing at the center of the table. “They know too much.” 

Hilda rolls her eyes, holding out her glass to Zelda’s generous pour. “You’re terrible.” 

Zelda shrugs, pouring a glass for herself. She sets the bottle aside. “It would seem, sister, that you are my valentine.” 

The blonde tilts her head, considering the mysterious woman across from her. “Are you disappointed?” 

“No, provided that you don’t mind being my valentine for the foreseeable future.” Zelda licks her lip. “For Sabrina.” 

“Forever and ever?” Hilda holds out her wine. 

Zelda smiles, nods, and raises her glass.

\--


End file.
